


Welcome Back

by annmacbain



Series: By Any Other Name [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, But that doesn't mean he was innocent, Contemplation of Murder, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, First Meetings, Gen, John is Moriarty, John-centric, More tags and chapters to come, POV John Watson, Richard Brook Was Real, Smart John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3370286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmacbain/pseuds/annmacbain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is stranded in London with no contacts, friends, or access to his world-wide empire.  What's worse, is that he has been forced to continue living with the name John Watson, while his brain feels like it's about to liquify and start coming out of his ears.  But perhaps this new flat mate can keep him occupied for a while...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, This is Going to be SO Much Fun

“How’s your blog going?”

Oh no, please, not this again.

“Yeah, good.” He cleared his throat, trying to calm down and refraining from slitting hers. “Good.”

She gave him a knowing and sympathetic look and then asked, “You haven’t written a word, have you?” It wasn’t really a question so much as a knowing statement. Changing the subject…

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues.’”

She paused, obviously not expecting her written words to be spoken aloud. Realizing what he had done, she started talking to him like he was a two year-old. “And you just read my writing upside-down. See what I mean?”

Not having a response that wouldn’t have her in tears and him sectioned almost immediately, he stayed quiet. She started to go off on his PTSD, giving him the same crap she had been telling him for months now. He knew it by heart, and knew exactly how to respond in order to have her leave him alone and feeling as though she was getting through to him. Today, however, he felt quite obstinate. His changed answer showed that.

“Nothing happens to me.”

At least, not anymore. Now everything was so frightfully slow, his whole world devoid of color. He had been in a war zone with fighting, action, and excitement around every corner. Before that he had been the mastermind of a crime organization that spread across the entire world. He had been able to pick and choose the most exciting and complicated puzzles to solve or create. Now? Everyone thought he was his unfortunate doppelgänger, Doctor John Watson, returned and broken war veteran who could barely afford the tip bedsit he was staying in.

He had stayed in London believing that he could find one of his old contacts and get back to his work. His empire. He had only actually been in Afghanistan for a little over six months, and there was absolutely no way that Richard could run everything into the ground in that time. Jim had taught him better than that. Right?

Apparently, the situation was worse than that.

Every single one of his former contacts were either dead or missing. The numbers to all of his trusted higher ups outside of London either weren’t picking up, or had changed their numbers. And Richard? None of the usual communication avenues that John would usually use to contact him were working. That, or they were being studiously ignored. John couldn’t even get in contact with Richard’s appointed babysitter. Either his entire organization had crumbled while Jim was away, or Richard had done something very, very naughty, and had managed to give his handler the slip. Or kill him. But Jim had liked his right hand a lot, so he hoped that he was still breathing and salvageable. Either way, Jim suspected the latter explanation to his current predicament.

Oh, he was going to kill little Richie. Slice off his eyelids first, and then force him to watch as Jim literally took him apart inch by inch for days, weeks even, if he could manage it. He had gotten quite good with a scalpel, after all.

Taking a shortcut through the park on his way back from the therapists’ office, Jim limped along on the well-kept path. That was something else he would kill Richard for. Not that he was directly to blame for Jim’s psychosomatic limp, but Jim would like to take his frustrations out on somebody, and he figured that he might as well do so to someone he’s going to hurt anyway. No, not hurt. Destroy. He never was a fan of collateral damage.

Hearing his alias’ name, Jim kept going. It’s not like John was an uncommon name, and no one had come ‘round looking for their old friend since his return. John Watson’s sister, Harriet, had been so drunk on their first and only face to face meeting since he had been back, that he could have presented her with his petit, Asian doctor at the hospital and Harry would have believed she was her brother. Apparently, Watson had efficiently cut off all ties with the life outside of the army. And even if his loyal employees had been around still, they wouldn’t know him by that name. Wait, did he say Watson…?

Turning, he saw an overweight, balding man in an overcoat and ridiculous tie coming up to him, panting already from jogging maybe two meters. “Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

Without any hesitation Jim stuck his hand out to shake Stamford’s hand. He had no idea who this man was, but given the fact that he knew a John Watson from a hospital, it was quite likely that this man was himself a doctor who knew his namesake. After an awkward conversation about getting fat and getting shot at, Jim let the man buy him a coffee and made small talk. Jim nearly exploded when this fat, pudgy man claimed that Jim was, “not the John Watson” he had once known. Of course he wasn’t! Even if the “good” Doctor Watson had returned from Afghanistan, it wasn’t as though this portly waste of complacent flesh would have recognized a man who had been to war for the past decade or so.

Steering the conversation away from talk of war, Jim was ever so glad that he had kept a cool head. (It was something he had been struggling with ever since his unfortunate return to London. He’d had to cover up a few messes already, and it was harder to do without proper resources.) When the man chuckled and informed him someone else was having troubles finding an agreeable flat mate, he asked, “Who was the first?”

 

The fat man took him to Bart’s Hospital in a cab. It wasn’t very far away, Jim suspected that the man only called a cab due to his fake limp, but he had never been one to reject an offer that could work in his favor, no matter how misplaced the intention may be. Walking through the white halls that reeked of disinfectant, Jim was careful to sound as if he recognized bits and pieces of a hospital he had never set foot in while making it sound as though he know exactly what he was doing. He had always been an incredibly adept liar.

Stamford brought him into a small lab, where a tall scarecrow with curly black hair was bending over a slide with a pipette in his hand. As the man merely glanced up and then continued working on his project, Jim took a look around. Most of the interior of the room looked as though it was anywhere from five to eight years old, so not much of it would be the same as when Watson would have been here. Taking a shot in the dark, he commented, “Bit different from my day.”

As Stamford unwittingly played along, Jim counted that as a win. He may have lost everything he had spent his life building, but at least he still had his mind.

Scarecrow Sharp-Cheeks spoke up, asking for a phone. Claiming he had left his in his coat, Stamford looked incredibly non-apologetic about not being able to give it to him. Sighing and wanting to move this along, Jim offered his own mobile. As Stamford continued on with introductions, Jim began to zone out. He didn’t really want a flat mate, but he also didn’t want to leave London while he still had no idea where he could go to find Richard and turn him into a bloody and unrecognizable pulp that could fit in a bread box. Besides, a new flat mate might be a nice distraction. After all, there was a few experiments he had been wanting to try out, and a new flat mate would make for a great guinea pig and a stable environment to test in. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Oh, that snapped Jim out of his thoughts, and it took him a second to answer.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Throwing a puzzled look in Stamford’s direction, Jim felt something suspiciously like interest stirring inside of him. How had this man known? Had Richard finally sent someone after him? But no, Jim could tell Scarecrow didn’t know who he was. The way he was analyzing Jim… Could he possibly have just found someone like himself? If that were so, then maybe he could reel him in, train him—Actually, on second thought, after Richard, that might not be the best idea. In any case, he was getting ahead of himself. Scarecrow may have gotten in a lucky guess and may actually be as dumb as a bag of rocks.

Barely noticing the lab assist-no, mortician, Jim replied, “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—“

“Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you.” Accepting the coffee with a somewhat polite smile, Scarecrow’s lips fell as he asked the poor mousy girl about lipstick she had been wearing and casually and thoughtlessly humiliating her.

As the obviously infatuated girl left, Scarecrow asked him yet another question. “How do you feel about the violin?”

As the conversation continued, Jim could feel his interest peak and his dusty and underused brain coming back to life. Ensuring that Stamford had not told this man anything about Jim or John, he allowed himself to become excited for the first time in months. Never mind experimenting on him. If Scarecrow was even a fraction of what Jim was beginning to believe him to be, he might not be bored again for a very, very long time.

Playing the part of a normal, level headed, everyday bloke, Jim questioned their living together without not knowing a thing about the other. Not that Jim didn’t already know everything important about the man from his shirt collar and left index finger. The deductions Scarecrow made right then and there nearly made Jim explode from anticipation. Struggling hard to keep his face slack and his bewildered expression genuine, Jim was able to finally give a name to the face.

Sherlock Holmes.

Oh, this was going to be so much fun.


	2. Missing the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets a small taste of Sherlock's work, and meets a threatening new player.

The phone booth next to him began ringing, but Jim continued walking, trying to blow off some steam. As he thought back to what had happened earlier that night, he couldn’t help but clench his teeth in frustrated annoyance.

It had started out so well. After his extremely unintentional outburst at his new, well-meaning landlady, Sherlock had invited him to a crime scene, and he had eagerly accepted Sherlock’s offer. He hadn’t been looking forward to sitting home alone and once again bored as his shiny new distraction was off being interesting somewhere else. 

The conversation in the cab had been extremely enlightening. Jim was extraordinarily glad that he had been living as John Watson long enough that his lifestyle had easily and clearly been taken at face value. Though, there was a small part of him that somewhat disappointing Sherlock didn’t see through the mask that had been forced upon him. Oh well. It had been fun when he was able to casually mention that Harry was “his” sister and watch the frustration grow on Sherlock’s face. It almost outweighed his disappointment to find that Sherlock wasn’t perfect. He wished-

 

Wait. Another phone had just coincidentally cut off just as he walked by. Jim around cautiously and subtly, being a little more cautious of his surroundings before berating himself for being paranoid. Jim kept moving on, continuing his review of the night’s events.

 

Jim couldn’t help but be a little surprised when he pulled up to a very recent and incredibly active crime scene. What business did his new flat mate have here so early on? How quickly these people called upon Sherlock was unusual in the extreme. Once again becoming excited at the opportunity to asses Sherlock’s intelligence, he had to keep from outright smirking at the adulterous pair of officers as he passed them (he had, of course picked up on the affair himself, but he hadn’t gotten close enough to either one of them to smell their deodorant. Jim would have to be careful with such a sensitive and trained nose around). Dutifully donning a blue suit, he followed his new hobby (who did not wear the suit, the poncy git) up several flights of stairs. Jim could hardly contain his excitement about what he would witness when he finally got to the top, and he was not disappointed. The deductions Sherlock made after only a few minutes of observation and phone surfing were absolutely brilliant, if a little showy.

He was, however, extraordinarily pissed when his entertainment left him standing at the top of the stairs surrounded by coppers, embarrassed and with no clue about what he might be doing other than one word: pink. Pink? What was so special about pink? Yes, that was all that she was dressed in, and yes her suitcase should match the rest of her and would therefore also be pink, but so what? Who cared? There must be thousands of pink suitcases in London, how did he expect to find this one by rushing off into the night?

After having to ask about where he might find a cab, and nearly laughing at the lady detective’s warning about how dangerous Sherlock was, he began limping home to his bedsit with a painful limp and a foul temper. When he caught that little ingrate, he was going to peel his-

 

The new phone booth next to him was ringing. There was absolutely no way this was a coincidence. Looking side to side to see if anyone was watching him, Jim cautiously opened the door and picked up the phone. Had Richard finally decided contacted him? Hope filled him rapidly. If it was Richard, he would play it cool, laugh off how he had obviously been shut off from his network, and worm his way into a meeting with him. He would smile, give Richard a hug, and then blow out his kneecaps and torture him until his heart gave out.

Picking up the phone, Jim forced himself to calmly ask, “Hello?”

“The security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?”

…What? Was Richard playing a game with him? “Who’s this?” When no reply was forthcoming, he asked again. “Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?” Doctor Watson? Was Richard mocking him? Or was this someone else completely? It couldn’t be an old competitor or rival, due to the fact that none of his enemies (save Richard) had ever seen his face, and he sincerely doubted that they would call him by his stolen name. The late John Watson had gotten himself into a lot of bad situations and deals. But it had been over six months since his discharge, so why would they be contacting him now? Whatever the reason, it looked like Jim’s best option was to play along for the moment.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch”

Oh no. Nonononono. This was bad. This was very bad.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?”

Jim didn’t even bother to reply this time, and his gut sunk into the ground as the second camera swiveled away from him.

“And finally at the top of the building on your right.”

“How are you doing this?” Keeping his exterior calm and stoic, Jim frantically wracked his brains on what he should do. He came up with several escape plans, but if the mystery man had snipers, he had no chance of getting away. He was trapped in a tiny, brightly lit glass box.

“Get into the car, Doctor Watson.” The car pulled up and the voice kept talking. “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation in quite clear to you.

As the body guard/chauffer opened the door for him, Jim knew that there was absolutely nothing for it. Hanging up the phone and stepping out of the booth, he got in, preparing himself for what he was about to see-

There was a beautiful woman on a blackberry. Why was there a beautiful woman on a blackberry? Girding up his friendly John Watson mask, Jim tried to make small talk/flirt with the woman to see if he could get any information out of her. She was obviously used to this kind of situation going by her attitude and the false name, though it didn’t look as though she did any heavy lifting or dirty work herself. She seemed to be a kind of secretary. With the chauffer in front, Jim was sure that, whoever these people worked for either didn’t think he would be capable of harming her, or that he wouldn’t on principle. Both assumption were equally false, but he decided that he should probably meet their over-confidant leader before killing them and revealing that he was not who they thought he was.

Getting out of the vehicle Jim almost groaned. An abandoned factory? Really? How… cliché. Where was the imagination? The pizazz? If there had been any hope buzzing around in his head that Richard really was behind his kidnapping, it was all gone now. Jim had taught him to be better than this.

Walking up to the man in front of him, Jim couldn’t help but look him up and down and examine him like he used to do prospective clients. He had recently gained a little weight, and there were a few cake crumbs on his lapels. Stress eating, which means that either he has had to deal with a very stressful and delicate problem himself (which might account for why he had not contacted Jim or John before now), or that his lifestyle was always stressful, and he had recently relapsed from a diet. Ah, the latter. His suit had recently been taken in before he started gaining his weight back. Posh, lots of money, and powerful. Used to holding people’s attention and commanding respect. The man reminded Jim of a cobra, ready to strike. Even through his cautions weariness, excitement started bubbling up from his stomach. This was the most thrilling thing to happen to him in months!

Refusing to sit, Jim played the stoic soldier and poked the sleeping bear, teasing him about his extravagant and showy use of power. He wanted to know exactly what he was dealing with, and it wouldn’t do to give himself away just yet.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place.”

Ah, so that was it. This man wasn’t actually interested in him as John Watson (who would be) or Jim Moriarty (which meant he could probably still talk his way out). What was really troubling, was that this new player wanted Sherlock, too. Well, that was problematic. Though Jim may not have found him first, he always got he wanted, and he never shared.

Once again refusing to sit down, the pompous man stared at him for a few seconds, dissecting him. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.” 

Laughing, the man continued. “Yes, the bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you agree?” Jim was comfortable with this now. He knew this game like the back of his hand. He had always been good at playing his clients like little puppets on a stage. Give them what they expect, and they’ll stop trying to figure out who you are, and then you can sell them whatever product or lie you want.

Dancing his way through the conversation, Jim kept trying to figure out what this man could want with Sherlock. “Who are you?”

“A interested party.” Something in his mind stirred. Party? Though it was not meant to give him any hints, it encouraged Jim’s mind to start making connections. Party, politics, government, M— Oh. Ohhh. Mr. M. The mysterious government bulldog steadily growing in power for years now. Control over CCTV cameras, the squeaky-clean assistant and the non-assassin body guard who screamed military. That was who this was! Why was he concerned with Sherlock? Did he consider him a threat to national security? Perhaps Sherlock had even more potential than Jim realized. After digging a little deeper, Jim got a response that he did not expect. 

“I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

…What?

“And what’s that?”

Almost before Jim was even done asking, M replied, “An enemy.”

Relief flooded Jim. “An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly.” This could only mean that he had met Sherlock before, or that Sherlock was aware of him. This might put a wrench in Jim’s plans. “If you were to ask him, he would probably say his arch-enemies. He does love to be dramatic.”

Frustrated by this fat speedbump’s pompous air, Jim shot back, “Well good thing you’re above all that.” Obviously striking a nerve, Jim took his well-timed text as another excuse to subtly disrespect the man in front of him. 

Baker Street.  
Come at once  
if convenient.  
SH

“I hope I’m not distracting you.”

Fighting a smile, Jim hurriedly schooled his face and casually put his phone away. “Not distracting me at all.”

When the conversation came around to money, Jim immediately became wary. It was never good to become indebted to powerful men. Jim should know. After all, he had been one once and, with any luck, would be again. Besides, there was no way that he would tell this man anything about what Sherlock was doing, no matter how worried he was about him. He should really be worried about Jim, and what he would do when he got back into power now that he knew M’s face.

Another chime signaled another text.

If inconvenient,  
come anyway  
SH

Mistaking Jim’s cautiousness for loyalty, the conversation became very uncomfortable, very quickly. He was going to kill his therapist. No one would ever find the body. Except, now someone was watching him, and it would probably look extremely suspicious if she were to suddenly disappear now. Great. As he decides to risk walking away, the pompous git brings up his shaking and useless left hand.

Turning around he asks, “My what?”

M smirks. “Show me.”

Jim had always felt uncomfortable when people touched him, but this man was even more unsettling. Then M made a deduction that cut straight through him, ringing with the truth of it. He missed the war so much. In all of his years, in all of the little games he had played, nothing had been quite so exhilarating as the war, where not even brains could assure your survival. Gut instinct and luck when grenades and missiles where raining down over his head gave him a thrill that games of Russian roulette had never even gotten close to giving him. As much as Jim wanted to get his empire back, there was a little part of him (okay, maybe not so little) that wanted to go back to war again. Sherlock had so far given him a glimpse, tasty and tempting, of what the war in London might be like. And besides, at least London had regular in-door plumbing.

M leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Welcome back." As the pompous fatty made his dramatic exit, he left Jim with a troubling statement. “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”

As the assistant made her way over to him to inform him of her instructions, he checked his latest text.

Could be dangerous.  
SH

After getting into the car and asking for them to make a detour, Jim thought about M’s parting remark. He was right, of course, Jim did need to choose a side. And he was in serious danger of choosing Sherlock’s.


End file.
